


so you can keep me (inside the pockets of your ripped jeans)

by Nessotherly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Carabosse - Freeform, Eating Disorders, F/M, Modern Setting, Modern Westeros, Photography, Rehabilitation, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sleeping Beauty - Freeform, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22257484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessotherly/pseuds/Nessotherly
Summary: She was blinded for a second by a flash, burning her retina and leaving her blinking furiously for a few seconds. When her vision finally cleared, she saw a camera held a few meters away from her face, and a ridiculously handsome man popped his head to the side behind it with a grin that was almost as blinding as the flash of his device.“What the —” she started, before closing her mouth and blushing furiously. It wouldn’t do for her to tarnish the reputation of the company by letting her big mouth go wild.But the man only smiled some more, his eyes glinting with something akin to irony. He gave her a courteous mock of a bow and quickly disappeared in the crowd.____Where Jaime is a shit who won't stop photographing Brienne, and where Brienne is seriously sick of being put in the spotlight.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	so you can keep me (inside the pockets of your ripped jeans)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Braime Bunch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Braime+Bunch).



> THis. Here. Is my baby. I've been writing this thing for idek how long. It was supposed to be a 3k PWP because I have a soft spot for leotards. It turned into a huge 15k+ beast. Multi-chaptered, it would seem. Please help me. 
> 
> ALSO this is not beta'd. at all. English is not my native language so there are a lot of subtleties that I cannot master yet, and I've probably missed out on a lot of glaring mistakes. I apologise in advance. 
> 
> I'm gifting this fic to the wonderful discord chat Braime Bunch, whom I love with all of my heart, even if my studies have made me disappear for a while <3 
> 
> Trigger Warning: graphic depictions of eating disorders. Please read carefully.

Some indie band was playing on the slightly elevated stage — a dark haired women dressed in a sparkling black dress, her hips swaying in rhythm as she skilfully tremoloed the lyrics. It was a soft song, powerful yet discreet enough for it to blend in the polite conversation of the crowd gathered on the boat. Brienne allowed her attention to drift towards the band instead of the intricate displays of Sansa’s flawless small talk with the head of the Academy. She had drank a couple of glasses of champagne — two more than what she probably should have. 

She hadn’t eaten much that day. Rehearsals had carried on late into the afternoon, and Sansa had immediately hurried her to her flat so as to get themselves ready for the gala. Brienne had mostly assisted her friend getting into her dress, done up her hair and provided moral support as she sat on the bed, her loose fitting dress carefully pulled up over her waist so as to not rumple it. Brienne could have done with a quick sandwich, but Sansa had been worried her belly wouldn’t be as flat then. Brienne had pursed her lips, but remained silent — and conveniently forgotten to eat too, probably out of embarrassment. 

Brienne was therefore feeling a bit lightheaded as she carefully escaped the chattering of her friend with her many admirers and went closer to the stage — her legs itched to break into a few steps, toes curling in anticipation of a slight _fondu_. Yet, she restrained her body and barely lowered her shoulders, feeling the comfortable burn of her shoulder blades as she lengthened her neck into a proper _port de tête._ She could almost feel the tension in her arms as she brought her thumbs and middle fingers together, all but setting them into first position — 

She wouldn’t dance. She merely bobbed her head in rhythm to the music, bringing her glass towards her lips, unable to help a faint smile as the cello started a powerful and diligent solo of its own. Despite her uncomfortable shoes, she pushed the tips of her toes outwards, heels sticking together; a discreet yet comfortable first position. She couldn’t help a small chuckle as she saw, to the side, a distracted and animated Margaery bringing her own feet into fourth position. 

Dancers were unmistakable in the crowd, and it always brought her a pang of pride whenever she caught a glimpse of their training showing in mundane situations. 

Sansa was the principal and the gala was all but thrown for her; the coveted role of Aurora had been given to her one week ago and everyone — journalists, share holders of the company and foreign choreographers — wanted to get a glimpse of her, know what she was made of and whether she had it in her to replace the mythical, yet ageing Cersei Lannister. 

Her absence was glaring, and yet, Brienne wouldn’t complain about it. Cersei was loud and spectacular — made for the spotlight, a goddess in scarlet dresses and revering _fouettés_ Brienne had never seen the like of. Sansa had whispered to her and Margaery that she’d been seen in rehab, and soon, the entire Academy had been made aware of the _Etoile’_ s fall. Speculations had circulated for an entire fortnight as to who could possibly replace Cersei — most bets weighed on Margaery, yet no one had been too surprised when Sansa had been chosen, with the former playing the Lilac Fairy. Some would say that Catelyn Stark having been hired as the artistic director of this brand new and exciting staging of the _Sleeping Beauty_ might have somehow influenced the choice of her daughter as Aurora, yet anyone who wasn’t guided by misplaced jealousy would know that the choice had been arbitrary. Sansa Stark outshone every single soloist of the company and not a single person who’d seen her twirl and leap across the stage would ever dare to say otherwise. 

Brienne, though — Brienne would be Carabosse, and it being a role often played by men did not play in favour of her insecurities. Yet she tried not to mind — didn’t mind at all, really. Pantomime was fun. She might be remembered for this role. 

The band started a new song, something a bit more jazzy and it was all Brienne could do not to close her eyes and let herself be carried by the wonderful voice of the woman — she pressed the rim of her empty cup against her lower lip, let her legs sway as the beat dropped to something more intimate, almost sensual. Seven hells — she really couldn’t hold her alcohol. 

She was blinded for a second by a flash, burning her retina and leaving her blinking furiously for a few seconds. When her vision finally cleared, she saw a camera held a few meters away from her face, and a ridiculously handsome man popped his head to the side behind it with a grin that was almost as blinding as the flash of his device. 

“What the —” she started, before closing her mouth and blushing furiously. It wouldn’t do for her to tarnish the reputation of the company by letting her big mouth go wild. 

But the man only smiled some more, his eyes glinting with something akin to irony, and he gave her a courteous mock of a bow and quickly disappeared in the crowd. 

And Brienne was left on her own with a shaky feeling — a sort of anxious vibration throughout her entire body, a sense that she’d once more been made a fool of. She had no idea what she must have been looking like — an idiot, certainly, her double chin sticking out, maybe showing a glimpse of her ugly teeth, freckles more defined than the rest of her. It was a professional camera, and it would show all of the nooks and crannies of her skin, the ways in which it could bend and twist and she’d be glorious in all of her imperfection. 

She _never_ let anyone come even near to her face with a camera, unless she couldn’t help it — promotional pictures for the company, she did not really mind: she’d be hidden in the masses of the _corps de ballet_ , barely noticeable if only for her father who kept all of these in a folder along with her childhood photos. Brienne felt… almost robbed, stripped out of her rights to her image, and she couldn’t help hiding in a corner of the ballroom, face hidden behind her hair as she focused on the city passing by the boat, its unfamiliar lights all mingling into a strange sense of anonymity. 

When Sansa finally found her almost an hour later, she was forced into some more socialising — the giggling of their dancing mates, all of them prone to bouts of silliness that had Brienne almost forgetting about her infuriating encounter with the strange photographer. She’d still see the room light up from time to time and she guessed he’d been hired to cover the gala. 

The evening was coming to an end; all of the main dancers were asked to gather for a group photo before the banner with their company’s logo plastered all over it. It took her some time to realise she’d have to join the party too, as Sansa becomed her over excitedly, looking incredibly beautiful in her golden dress and sparkly makeup. Brienne sighed as she slipped behind her friend, feeling extremely tall and awkward as she knew she towered the entirety of the group by at least a good ten centimetres. The man didn’t seem to notice her, exchanging a few jokes with the dancers and the directors, and Brienne made sure to smile with her mouth closed. 

A few shots were taken, and Brienne wanted to disappear. She tried to slip away once the whole ordeal was done but Sansa grabbed her by the arm and led her towards the photographer. Brienne thought she’d die here and there as she saw recognition passing in the man’s green eyes and Sansa asked him for a personal picture — 

“It’s our great debut, and I’d love to have this moment immortalised! Here’s my card —” 

Sansa pulled a card out of her revealing neckline and Brienne groaned in embarrassment as the man took it with a sarcastic sort of reference. 

“But of course,” he said, and raised his camera once more, taking a few steps back as Sansa threw her arms around Brienne’s neck and pulled herself on her tip toes so as to rest her cheek against hers. 

Brienne couldn’t help herself from smiling fondly at her best friend’s antics — and the flash went out, leaving her once more disoriented and queasy. 

The photographer mock-bowed again, his sardonic smile never leaving his lips, nodded at Sansa’s insistence that he’d mail her the resulting picture and disappeared. 

* * *

The sun had not even rouse up when Sansa interrupted her warm up with a newspaper thrown at her face as Brienne rose from her stretched leg on the _barre._

She almost shrieked in surprise, and managed to grab the offending paper before it fell to the ground. 

“What’s that?” she said, holding it out before her eyes and seing some news coverage of Essos protests in Freemen’s Bay. 

“Shit, you lost the page,” Sansa replied, wrenching the paper out of her hands, flipping through it with a sort of jerkiness Brienne wasn’t used to see on her. “Here,” she said again, and gave it back to Brienne with a little bit more care. 

Brienne’s stomach dropped. 

“What the—” she said, eyes bulging as she inescapably recognised her own face in a huge photograph, staring into the distance, the lighting making her almost unrecognisable, the champagne glass denting her lower-lip, revealing a hint of her teeth. The colours were so muted it could have been a black and white shot, yet her eyes caught the lighting of the stage in which the band had been playing and were unmistakably blue. The angle was strange — taken from afar, yet zoomed in to the extreme, almost embarrassingly. “B-But,” Brienne stammered, unable to make sense of _this —_ the picture, its very existence, its presence in the newspaper. “Why?” 

She heard Margaery’s voice entering the studio, and soon felt her hanging leisurely from her shoulders as she took a look at whatever it was that had peaked her friends’ interest. 

“ _What the fuck?”_ Margaery said, echoic the very exact thoughts that were currently running through Brienne’s mind. 

“ _I know_!” Sansa shrieked, looking all but like a fiery fury, eyes shining elatedly with something that looked like — triumph?

“Why?” Brienne repeated, her mouth feeling strange in her mouth as mortification slowly took over her senses.

“Read it!” Sansa said, her voice still uncharacteristically high. 

And so Brienne did. 

_For their 47th Winter Season, the Golden Academy of Southron Westeros might seem to have chosen to play it safe by settling with a great classic:_ Sleeping Beauty _. Yet, the promises of a modern adaptation of the tale hints at a dusting of the old traditions the Academy is internationally known for. Artistic Director Catelyn Stark’s daughter, Sansa Stark, is to play the cursed Aurora in the three act timeless ballet. Entering the Royal School of Northern Arts at merely nine years old —_

A beautiful close up of Sansa’s face adorned the first paragraph of the article, listing all of her impressive accomplishments and introducing the new prima ballerina to the world with a brief survey of her career. Her insides twisted and knotted as she finally saw her own name bolded as an introduction to the third paragraph. It was accompanied by the treacherous portrait — the coup de grace of this entire humiliation. 

_Twenty four year old Brienne Tarth is to play the role of Carabosse, the vengeful fairy who curses Aurora to prick her finger and die on her sixteenth birthday. “The character of Carabosse embodies a common mythology in all cultures of the world,” explains Catelyn Stark during the promotional gala of the Academy. “She is a scorned and therefore vengeful creature — or dare I say woman? Most times, she is merely played for laughs. We’ll be providing the public with a different interpretation of the role — most ballet connoisseurs will know it to be a play on pantomime with astonishing music. This would be a waste on Miss Tarth’s talents. We know there is a depth to be found in her, and we will do our best to explore it in our own retelling of the tale. We want it to be a story of two women, Aurora and Carabosse, facing prejudice and inevitability and, in a sense, finding in each other a mirror.” Photographer Jaime Lannister comments on his startling shot of the evil fairy: “There is a strange and compelling oddity to her looks. Pretty eyes, also.” Tickets are on sale from the —_

An oddity. Brienne blinked back a few treacherous tears, let the paper fall to the ground and turned back to the _barre_ so as to plop her left leg on it, placing her entire length over her knee and letting the burn of the stretch somehow appease her indignation. 

“Bri’,” Sansa said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Bri’, this is _good_!” 

A few other dancers came into the studio, some of them with a copy of the newspaper in their hands, and shoot a few strange looks in their direction. She knew herself to be crimson — an ugly red beast, an oddity of a woman who’d been somehow placed on the spotlight. 

She’d been happy as a faceless body in the masses of the _corps de ballet_. She’d never asked for a full on role. Especially not one directors meant to experiment on by having it subvert expectations no one really had any to begin with.

“Did you know?” Margaery asked Sansa, crouched over the paper with her eyes skimming over the article. “Did your mother tell you?” 

“No,” Sansa replied, and Brienne glanced in her direction, saw that her happiness had subsided to worry. For her. Brienne’s anger wavered for a split second. “She makes sure we do not talk about work in private. It wouldn’t be proper.” 

“That’s amazing, Brienne!” 

She didn’t reply, and as she came back to her two feet, she could not help her eyes to rest on her portrait once more. Sansa saw her flinch, and dramatically grabbed her cheeks so as to force her eyes to lock with hers. 

“It’s a _beautiful_ picture, Brienne,” she said, her voice deep and serious, and Brienne wanted to laugh at her, laugh at the lot of them. She didn’t. She could not find it in herself to smile. 

“Right,” she said, shrugging out of Sansa’s hold. She could already feel her muscles growing cold. She must keep moving. 

“Bri’,” Margaery said, sliding next to her on the floor in an effortless _grand écart_. “Bri’, you look absolutely _stunning_ in this picture.” 

She wanted to leave, wanted to call in sick and she did love her friends with all of her heart, but she’d rather have them be truthful and sincere, spitting out the ugly truth to her face, just like the rest of the world did — rather than this humiliating hypocrisy born out of loyal inclinations. 

“It’s humiliating,” she groaned, pulling herself up on downward facing dog, reaching one leg high above her body.

“It’s a _compliment_ ,” Sansa retorted. 

“That photographer has good eyes,” Margaery added. 

“ _Pretty eyes,”_ Sansa giggled, and Brienne groaned some more. 

“Jaime Lannister,” Margaery said, reporting her attention on the article. Brienne carefully avoided looking at it for one second more, and brought the other leg up. “Why does that name sound familiar?” 

Sansa gasped. “Isn’t that Cersei’s maiden name?” 

“Wait, does that mean they’re related?” 

“His cousin maybe?” 

“Brother,” another voice drawled overhead, and Brienne closed her eyes in frustration. She felt him lowering himself towards the article, too quick for Sansa or Margaery to react. “Twin, actually.” 

Brienne carefully drew her right leg before her and lowered herself into a _grand écart_ , smiling inwardly at the flawlessness of her movement. She looked up at Ronnet Connington, her face devoid of any expression. Ronnet whistled sarcastically at her portrait. 

“Get the fuck out, Connington,” Margaery growled, getting back on her feet and squaring her shoulders — Ronnet was not impressed. 

“Incredible picture,” he said, eyes skimming over the article with a growing smile on his lips. “Really, Lannister is _quite_ the photographer.” 

Sansa wrenched the newspaper out of his hands and pressed it against her chest, her pretty eyes inflamed with anger. 

“He really captured the essence of Brienne’s beastliness. I am quite shaken. Truly, a piece of art.” 

Margaery lunged at him, but Brienne was quick on her feet and held her back by the shoulders. She went to stand before Ronnet — towered over him with her full height and for once, did not regret her tallness and imposant stature. She held his gaze and he quickly looked away, his cruel smile nonetheless never leaving his lips, and he turned back towards the opposite _barre_ so as to get started on his _pliés_. 

“What a shit,” Sansa groaned, and Brienne nodded, heart thumping in her chest and wishing more than ever she could disappear for the day. 

She had responsibilities however, and she was not estranged to such comments on her appearance; she quickly regained her composure — or at least, pretended to. She nodded towards the barre and the girls hurriedly started their warm up in synchronicity, Margaery to the front, guiding them through skilful yet treacherous sequences of lunges and _pliés_ so as to have their muscles shaking in mere minutes. 

* * *

“So, I have news,” Sansa said, plopping herself down next to Brienne, back resting against the mirror, looking all comfy and sweaty in her pink knitted wrapper. She was holding her phone in her hands, looking uncomfortably mischievous. “Two of them, actually.” 

“Okay…?” Brienne said with her banana still stuffed in her mouth, slightly worried. 

“You want the cool one or the _even cooler_ one?” 

Brienne blinked, then swallowed. With difficulty. 

“The bad one first,” she sighed, eyeing her friend’s phone warily. 

Sansa beamed, then started scrolling through her phone and finally showed her a picture of them both — a picture she didn’t know and couldn’t remember at first, before finally blanching and almost sending the phone flying through the studio. 

“ _Why are you showing me this?”_ she all but roared, glaring at her friend who was now almost bent in half with laughter. 

“Because we’re cute! And it’s us!” Sansa said with a smile that couldn’t possibly not hurt her cheeks. 

“I look like a constipated _fool_ ,” Brienne replied, glaring at the offending picture. 

“Look at the mail,” Sansa added, her voice strange and strained, as if she was holding out a new fit of laughter. Brienne’s stomach contracted. 

_Dear Ms Stark,_

_As promised, you’ll find the picture I took of you and your friend attached to this e-mail. Despite this mundane shot being a blatant waste of my talents, I do hope it is to your convenience._

_Best regards,_

_Jaime Lannister._

_PS: Please entrust my personal number to the evil fairy, I would be interested in working some more with her: 046 XXX XXX_

Brienne blinked, then looked up at Sansa who was now stifling her giggling against her hands. It all felt like some cruel, convoluted joke. A prank at her expanse. She caught a glimpse of Ronnet by the barre warming up with a few of his friends and couldn’t help her chest tightening in recollection of the bet. 

“This is not funny,” she said, holding the phone out to Sansa by the tips of her fingers. 

“It’s _wonderful,_ ” Sansa replied with a frown. 

“It’s — cruel,” she blurted for lack of a better word. 

Sansa’s expression softened, and she placed her hand on Brienne’s thigh as a gesture of comfort. 

“It is _not_.” Sansa’s tone had shifted to seriousness, struggling to hold Brienne’s gaze as she kept avoiding hers. “I’ve done a bit of research — he’s actually a big deal. His work is sold for millions some times. He’s got an exhibition in Cobbler’s Square. And you’ve seen his portrait of you. I think he’s actually serious about that. I’ve heard mum talking about the article — the online version of it. It’s not exactly gone _viral_ but it’s seen a lot of traffic and has had people talking about it. I’ve seen it on Twitter.” 

Brienne blushed furiously at the thought; people speculating on her face, her ugliness and unexpected exposure as a character the Academy hoped to modernise were not things she could possibly be confortable with. 

She sighed. “What’s the other news?” 

Sansa beamed. “You’re coming with me to see my mum. This afternoon.” 

“But I’m meant to —”

“No. She wants us both, and talk about our roles.” 

Brienne put her half-eaten banana down, wrapped it up in tinfoil and put it back into her Tupperware. “She was being serious? About the whole two sides of the same coin thing?” 

Sansa nodded. “She hopes to make a parallel to Odette and Odile. The choreographers and scenarists are already working on rearranging the scenes. And don’t tell anyone I’ve told you, but —” 

She lowered her voice, putting on a conspiratory expression. “Walda told me that apparently they’re working on a _pas de deux_ that has nothing to do with the Prince. I _think_ it’s for us. I _think_ we’ll have our very own _pas de deux_.” Sansa looked genuinely excited — overjoyed, even, and all Brienne could manage was a weak smile. 

“I’ll sweep you out of your feet,” she deadpanned. Her great size and strength would allow her to carry on a few _portés_ and Brienne knew how revolutionary it could be, she truly did; yet, it felt once more like a finger pointed at her masculine frame. 

She pushed the thought aside — it was actually a really good idea, and it would be challenging. She’d not only have to play on her strength and androgyny, but also on her acting and sensitivity if what she understood of Catelyn’s vision was correct. 

“Don’t you get it?” Sansa added, eyes shining with pride and genuine happiness for the both of them. “We’re the big deal. The both of us. You’re as much a principal as I am. We’re the _leads_.” 

Brienne blinked a few times, taken aback. “ _No_. Aurora is the lead — she’s always been.” 

“Not this time, she’s not,” Sansa replied, and the way in which she crunched her nose in glee had Brienne’s heart almost leap at the thought that maybe, it wasn’t that much of an insult if the directors had seen something resembling potential in her. 

* * *

It had been their childhood dream: finding a friend they could share their dancing with, climb up the hierarchical ladder of a ballet company and get overjoyed over their mutual success with. Brienne was sometimes surprised at the easiness with which Sansa had accepted her place into the spotlight, and even welcomed her, despite it meaning that she probably wouldn’t shine as much as she would have done on her own as a traditional Aurora. 

The next few weeks were a hurricane of emotions, meetings and rehearsals. She’d quickly been taught her new choreographies; Sansa’d been lucky in her casting in the fact that she already had a profound understanding of her role and most of its iconic steps. Of course, it had all been given a new perspective, but Sansa was smart and talented and dancing flawlessly around the studio in less than a week. 

Brienne’s part, on the other hand — there was no basis on which she could place her understanding of the character except for the pantomime parts Catelyn Stark had decided to keep as a nod to the source material. She admired and loved working with Sansa’s mother — she was strong and brilliant, and her guidance precise and to the point. Brienne quickly lowered her walls in her presence as she came to understand that Catelyn’s appreciation of her potential was genuine. 

“I’ve seen your Esmeralda,” she told her one time. They’d been taking a break as they worked on her entrance over and over again. “Last year, at the summer festival. I’ve never seen such precision and strength in her twirls. I immediately _knew_ there was something to do with you.” 

And Brienne had flushed some more, breathing heavily and hiding her embarrassment behind a long gulp of water, and quickly went back to the _centre_. Carabosse new arrival at Aurora’s name day celebration was highly influenced by Odile’s coda, and Brienne tried to channel the same kind of destructive energy as she leaped around the room in a terrifying combination of _brisés, cabrioles, fouettés, déboulés,_ and some more _fouettés_. Catelyn wanted to see her desperation and humiliation at having been left out of the celebration, and to be perfectly honest, Brienne sometimes felt like she’d been put on this earth for this role. She had no difficulty emulating these feelings — she didn’t even have to pretend. She was all that Catelyn saw in Carabosse, and it was almost embarrassing at times how spot on the director’s interpretation of the character echoed Brienne’s experiences. 

They never mentioned it, and Brienne was grateful for it. It hung over them as Catelyn talked and guided Brienne’s steps, and their knowledge of it felt almost like an oath of confidence, and understanding between the two women that had Brienne willing to follow her to the end of the world.

She’d rehearse with Margaery at times, too; Catelyn did not wish to strip the ballet entirely of its humorous quality, but rather than having Carabosse’s character ridiculed, she represented the rivalry between the two fairies as a dance off that was absurd as it was almost _impossible_ to perform without having the two friends struggling for breath as soon as the sequence was done with. Margaery took the scene way too seriously, and would sometimes ignore the set choreography and improvise on the spot, challenging Brienne with a look that had her own blood pumping in indignation. She’d retaliate as strongly as she possibly could, and it was soon decided that while they’d have to keep a certain consistency in their dancing and make sure a few key steps were achieved, each representation would allow them to explore their competitiveness so as to declare one of them the winner. 

Brienne’s favorite rehearsals were the ones with Sansa; as teens, they used to practice famous _pas de deux_ together, work on their _pas de quatre_ together, correcting and supporting each other as only two best friends could. Brienne had been surprised, back then, that their friendship was devoid of any sort of competitiveness or any of these petty things they saw in their fellow dance mates. 

Sansa’s dancing and stage presence was, at times, breathtaking. The role had been _made_ for her; the delicate, yet strong beauty carrying a beautiful melancholy in her gestures. Aurora was known to be one of the most difficult parts in a dancer’s repertoire — almost never leaving the stage, legs worked to exhaustion through painstakingly slow movements. But Sansa didn’t flinch, didn’t show any of her exhaustion, kept her moves free of shakiness and it was all Brienne could do to match her perfection. 

She’d been surprised to find out there were not that many _portés_ in their pas de deux — it was mainly a sensual exchange of gestures, looks and convoluted plays on their legs as they crossed and leapt in synchronicity, both of them supporting the other through _cambrés_ and _pirouettes._ Carabosse was meant to feel the pain her curse had placed on the young girl, saw her steps slowly bend under the guilt of her actions. It was highly romantic, more than Aurora’s _pas de deux_ with the Prince, and they both knew it might bring a frown to the most conservative members of their sponsors and faithful audience. 

They were, therefore, delighted to overplay the sexual undertones of their _pas de deux_ , and Catelyn’s approving gaze was worth more than any applause the public could ever bestow upon them. 

* * *

Three weeks later — a fortnight before the ballet’s premiere, Sansa and Brienne were called to Catelyn’s office in the second floor and made to wait in the lobby. They didn’t usually come to this part of the building; it was mainly reserved to administrative matters and board meetings with the Opera and the Academy’s sponsors. Whereas Sansa was almost buzzing with anticipation, Brienne couldn’t help her own anxiety cursing through her every nerves. 

“You really have no idea?” Brienne whispered at her friend. 

Sansa shrugged. “Not a clue.” 

Catelyn opened the door then, weight resting on the doorknob, giving them a strained yet welcoming smile. They both hurried to their feet and entered the room — and Brienne immediately wished she could go back the way she came. 

She’d strangely not forgotten his face and recognised him instantly. Jaime Lannister stood in the chair facing Catelyn’s desk and rouse his eyebrows at the two dancers. 

“Ladies,” he said, nodding at them. Brienne awkwardly took a step back. Sansa, on the other hand, grabbed her arm and held her in place, preventing her swift escape. 

“Jaime Lannister, isn’t it?” she asked carefully, shooting a confused look at her mother. 

Jaime Lannister smiled politely. “Indeed. We’ve been in touch a few weeks ago, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“We have,” Sansa said. She slowly walked to the chair next to the man, sat gracefully and indicated the next seat to Brienne. 

She hesitated for a few seconds and finally obeyed under Catelyn’s severe gaze. Lannister gave her the same mocking smile she remembered from the gala and she looked away, focusing instead on Catelyn’s old portrait as Copelia, a few twenty years ago. 

“Girls,” Catelyn said from behind her desk, fumbling into her drawers so as to take out a folder she placed before the two of them. “Am I mistaken to believe you’ve read the article on our upcoming staging of _Sleeping Beauty_ in the Daily Westerosi from a few weeks ago? Following the gala?” They nodded, and Brienne ignored the way in which her muscles tensed in anticipation of whatever it was that could justify Jaime Lannister’s presence. 

“Mr. Lannister had been commissioned to take a few good shots of our company for the press,” she continued, clasping her hands before her as she gave the two girls a severe look. “We’ve been more than impressed with his work. His portrait of you, Brienne, has brought more attention to us than we could have expected.” 

“ _What_ ,” Brienne said incredulously. 

Catelyn nodded, then pushed the folder towards the two girls. Sansa opened it, andBrienne’s face appeared, bigger than what she could ever be confortable with — a glossy photograph in A4 scale. It was way too professional, too _real_ for Brienne’s liking and all she could do was flush and slouch in her chair, trying desperately to make herself as small as possible. 

“The company has decided to hire him again,” Catelyn said, and Brienne held back a pitiful groan of misery. “An international magasine is taking a closer look at our interpretation of _Sleeping Beauty_. You’ll be both interviewed, and Mr. Lannister will provide us and the magasine with a few shots of you two.” 

“We have scheduled a shooting tomorrow for the both of you,” Jaime Lannister added. “I’ll take a few shots of your dancing, maybe this revolutionary _pas de deux_ everyone’s been talking about. Then I will be seing you individually if needed.” 

Brienne flushed some more. “We have rehearsals,” she said — a weak protest that didn’t convince anyone. 

“We’ll clear out your schedule, and you might want to pop by once you’ve finished with Mr. Lannister,” Catelyn replied with a faint smile. “But we need this opportunity. Our marketing team is adamant.” 

“That sounds fun,” Sansa said carefully, giving Brienne an assessing look, then turning to exchange silent words with her mother. The silence lingered, and finally, Brienne nodded sharply. 

“Perfect! I am afraid I must leave you now; Mr. Lannister, please exchange all necessary informations with the girls.” She rouse up, and Jaime Lannister did as well, exchanging a brief and courteous handshake with the woman. “Please, do give my best to Cersei when you see her next.”

She left the room and Jaime sat back on his chair, pulling an expensive looking messenger bag to his lap and got yet another folder out that he presented to the girls. “You’ll find my studio’s address and all sorts of directives for tomorrow in there. You have an appointment later today with a stylist of my choice and I’ll ask you to come in two hours early to the photoshoots for makeup, hairstyling and warming up.” 

Sansa flipped through the few pages with a growing smile on her lips. She did love dressing up. “Do you know if we’ll be using our own costumes?” 

Jaime shook his head. “Mrs. Stark wants it to be exclusive to the representation. You’ll be wearing something loosely inspired by your characters, and on our individual sessions, just bring in your usual training outfits.” He looked up at Brienne, giving her a lopsided smile. “Black leotards should do the trick for the evil fairy.” 

Brienne blushed. “My name is Brienne.” 

Jaime nodded. “As you like, Brienne the Fairy.” 

Sansa quickly gave her the folder and she was grateful to find something to do. She flipped through the pages distractedly, trying to somehow appease the treacherous flush that she knew to be spreading to the tip of her ears. Sansa asked a few more questions about the location — what bus they should take, the floor and the code of the building, and some more things she couldn’t focus on. He finally left, allowing Brienne to take a long, shuddering breath that had Sansa turn a concerned look towards her. 

“Are you ok?” she asked, and Brienne nodded sharply. “I’m so sorry — if only I’d known, I could have told my mother…” 

“It’s ok,” Brienne replied. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.” She put the folder back on the desk and pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples. “I would have thought you’d like that kind of opportunity. You were so happy about the article.” 

“Yes…” Sansa hesitated, opened and closed her mouth a few times, before shrugging and trying to play it off. “Yes, but I see how uncomfortable he makes you.” 

Brienne frowned. “What was that?” 

“What?” 

“That,” she said, waving vaguely at Sansa’s whole person. “That thing you do when you want to say something that you know you shouldn’t.” She knew Sansa, and the way she acted when she tried to stifle her inclinations to petty gossip. It worked, most times, if only because Brienne wasn’t too keen on partaking in it, and often, Margaery pierced through Sansa’s well meaning walls and it all came rushing out nonetheless. This time though, Brienne wanted to know. That Jaime Lannister did make her uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to keep on believing it was all just in her head, that it all only came back to her insecurities and her being unreasonably anxious. 

So Sansa told her, and she kept on thinking about what she said for the rest of the afternoon, as they tried on the newest creations of the costume department. It lingered on in the evening as her anxiety grew and grew in anticipation of the photoshoots. She tethered herself to the idea that she wouldn’t be alone, Sansa would be by her side, and they’d be dancing anyway — they would create their own safe space. She’d block out all thoughts of the photographer, his invasive and destabilising portrait of her, his describing her as an oddity and his sarcastic insistence on calling her _evil fairy_. She didn’t want to think of the individual photoshoot, though. She stubbornly blocked the idea from her mind. It would be a problem for another day. 

Jaime Lannister, Sansa told her, did not have the greatest of reputations. A few clicks and a slightly deeper dive into his Google results had her learning about his incarceration for beating an old man up and leaving him in a vegetative state ten years ago — he’d inexplicably been released a mere six months later on the basis of self-defence. Sansa surmised Lannister money had had something to do with it. 

He’d used to dance too, and been forced to give it up as the encounter had apparently given some lasting damage to his right hand. Sansa had found some old videos on Youtube of his dancing of questionable quality, most of them in the company of a blonde girl Sansa’d had trouble identifying through the intense pixelisation of the clips. She’d ended up recognising her though — it was Cersei, Jaime’s old dancing partner and as Sansa showed her the videos on her phone, she’d whispered: “He couldn’t do the _portés_ anymore.” Cersei had been as graceful and perfect as they remembered her to be, and there was some sort of reverence to the way in which they observed her _pirouettes_ and _fouettés_ from a decade ago. 

The clips were sensual, almost romantic — probably uploaded for personal use, according to their mere average of less than a hundred views. Brienne couldn’t shake the feeling that she was prying into something that had not been meant for anyone else’s eyes but the twins’. 

Jaime’d built his photographer career in less than a couple of years — Lannister money must have had something to do with it once more. And Brienne had taken a look at his work, his most expensive shots that had secured him a place amongst the finest artists in all of Westeros, and she’d been forced to admit that his work was brilliant. She wondered how and _why_ he’d been hired to cover the Academy’s gala: his work was worth more than this sort of promotional coverage. His employment must have cost the company a fortune. 

Her hands were shaking as she waited for the makeup artist to finish her up, eyes set on the glass in horror as she saw her carefully avoiding her freckles — Jaime had insisted they remained visible. She didn’t understand any of it: her eyes were somehow highlighted by a faint trace of blue kohl in her waterline, yet she’d been given no mascara and her blonde eyelashes remained stubbornly blonde, a strange and unsettling contrast that made her eyes weirdly stand out from the rest of her face. Her lips had been painted black and a careful application of a brownish tint along the line of her jaw and cheeks highlighted the rough structure of her bones. She was familiar with this sort of makeup, had seen the girls exaggeratedly sculpting and contouring their faces for representations so as to have their traits visible from afar. She knew of theatre makeup, yet she’d never done it, trying to make herself disappear into the masses of snowflakes and swans, fighting off the faintness induced by weeks of careful dieting so as to force her shoulders and arms into a womanly, ballerina standard. Her face would remain carefully pale, freckles hidden behind layers of foundation. 

This, here, was completely new; her face and traits had been carefully controlled so as to make her weirdness stand out. Catelyn had even required she eat more than usual, her eyes running appreciatively along the ridiculously large muscles of her shoulders. “Carabosse is meant to be strong. I want you to embrace it.” Yet Brienne knew better, knew the standards to which the seamstresses applied their measurements, and she’d had enough of their sneers during fittings to know what type of meal plans awaited her for the next two weeks. 

Rather than the traditional purple hues on black velvet of Carabosse’s outfit, she’d been given a loose fitting gown of black lace over a black cotton leotard. The hem was asymmetrical, rising high on her left thigh and hanging over the knee on the left, and as Sansa had commanded her to twirl, she’d been pleased to see it shine with metallic blue embroidery as it whirled around her legs beautifully. Sansa’d been given the very same dress in a palish sort of pink, emphasising the whole concept of their characters mirroring each other in their oppositeness. It was a simple, yet effective image. She’d been given black pointe shoes to break in whereas Sansa’d been only asked to bring her usual pink ones. 

“Done!” the makeup artist said, smiling sweetly at her then at Sansa who’d been passing the time sewing black ribbons on Brienne’s brand new pointe shoes. 

“You are gorgeous,” Sansa beamed, and Brienne glared at her. 

“Don’t make fun of me.” 

“I’m not—”

But Brienne shook her head and got up, stretched her legs and bent her ankles forward and backwards, curled her toes and pressed her weight on it so as to have them crack loudly in the little room. The artist let out a soft gasp and Sansa immediately imitated her with a giggle. 

“Let’s get warmed up,” Brienne said, holding out her hand to Sansa as she cut the last remaining threads from her shoes. There was nothing like the feeling of a crisp new pair of pointes in her hands, feeling them unyielding and unbending under her feet, stripping them of their perfectness and making them her own so as to tumble across the stage with, hopefully, close to perfect accuracy. 

Jaime had provided them with a barre they brought to the side of the studio. They’d have to do without a mirror, but the two of them were confident enough in their muscle memory to bring themselves to a good sweat. They hung their pointes to the extremities of the barreby their laces and flexed their feet on their demi-pointes. Sansa put some music on her phone and they dived into their _pliés_ , _grand pliés_ and _cambrés,_ then _tendus, petits battements_ and _dégagés_ , all the way to their _jetés_ and _grand jetés, fondus_ and many more perfecting of their moves. 

When they finally sat down to put on their pointes for a bit of _au centre_ exercises — mainly so Brienne could get a proper feel of her new shoes, Jaime Lannister was chattering away with his assistant to the side, resolutely ignoring them. Brienne looked down as soon as she saw him turning his head in their direction, angrily tucking the ends of her rubans against her ankle while Sansa whistled appreciatively at the shoes. 

“We don’t wear near enough black pointes in this trade,” she commented wisely, eyes devouring the new look of Brienne’s feet. Even Brienne had to admit that there was something almost mesmerising about the stark contrast of black pointes on white tights, an elegance that regular pink pointes, however lovely and timeless they were, could never hope to accomplish. “I’m so jealous,” Sansa added, and Brienne knew it to be true. She sticked out her tongue to her and quickly got back on her feet. 

“Let’s jump for a bit, shall we?” she said, already feeling the curve of her soles, forcing their bend a bit, unable to help a smile. Her anxiety had all but left her a few thirty minutes agobetween her _fondus_ and _jetés_ , and already she could feel a rush of excitement at the prospect of their lovely _pas de deux —_ she could see the very same twinkle of euphory in Sansa’s eyes, and they quickly leaped on their feet in synchronicity after a quick check of the chain of moves they were to perform. 

When they started working on their _fouettés_ , she noticed that the eyes of the staff, —including Jaime Lannister’s — were on them. Brienne pursed her lips, ignoring the golden rule of placating a radiant smile on her face, all to make sure she wouldn’t leave her spot, flinch or shake as she bent back to the ground, arms angrily raised in fourth position. A few cheers echoed around the room and she flushed a bit, slowly rising out of her position to nod at Sansa that they’d better quickly work on their _grand jetés_ so as to get this whole thing over with. Sansa’s chest was heaving in exhaustion, but she was beaming. 

“Bri’, you totally went Black Swan over there _,”_ Sansa heaved, and Brienne shrugged as she felt her cheeks reddening some more, because yes, she might have been showing off — just a little bit. There was no need for twenty _fouettés_ , this was all just meant for them to warm up and for Brienne to get steady on her black pointes. But she’d be damned if she didn’t allow herself to find confort wherever she could, and the gods _knew_ she took pride in how on point her technique was. 

Soon, they were done; there was a gleam of admiration in the eyes of the staff, yet when Jaime walked over the two of them, he looked more bored than anything. “All done?” he asked, and Sansa nodded breathily, unable to speak yet. Jaime looked Brienne up and down with a little smirk, then turned around towards the makeup artist and told her to come and fix them up. Three minutes of careful dabbing later, they were asked to walk towards the large white sheet hanging from a couple of metal fixtures. Brienne grabbed her flowery prop and Jaime went to sit behind his tripod, trifling with his camera, his mind already focused on the job at hand. They waited, then waited some more — enough for them to look in the direction of their forgotten bags so as to gather some additional clothing to keep themselves warm. 

And finally, Jaime looked at them and smiled. 

“You girls do your thing, I’ll take a few shots and I’ll have a general idea of what I’d like you to repeat. Then we’ll do it again. Is that alright for you?” 

Sansa nodded; Brienne shrugged, then stretched her feet, rolled her weight on her pointes once more and finally got into place. Sansa stood before her with her arms dramatically crossed against her chest, head tipped in mourning, and they waited for the music to play. 

The scene did not exist in the original ballet; the music belonged to the third act, a tense and originally mischievous tune that was given a whole new tone in Catelyn’s brand new adaptation. The supporting cast was meant to remain frozen in time as Maleficent’s curse took its hold on Aurora while she fought against the inevitability of her fate. 

Brienne loved it. It was a stark contrast to Sansa’s previous childish leaping and twirling, ignoring her parents’ concern so as to dance carelessly around the ballroom. Sansa raised on her pointes and moved reluctantly into Brienne’s arms who guided her into a masterful _pirouette_ that had her ending in an arabesque, stopping at the very moment the music came to a sudden and short lived crescendo. Then it was Brienne’s turn, her body language more predatory, conquering. They went on with the steps — a relentless attempt to overpower the other as a begrudging respect slowly grew in the evil fairy and an understanding of her inevitable hundred years of sleep took over Aurora. 

They danced as well as they could, and finished as Aurora finally fainted in Brienne’s arms, her body stiff pressing against her chest in what could almost be seen as a lover’s embrace. Brienne had almost forgotten all about Jaime and his damned camera — and he seemed as though he had too. He stood very still behind his tripod, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. There was something in his eyes, something Brienne did not like very much — something too akin to the constant mockery that’d followed her around throughout her whole career and that had only recently started to fade as she’d been blessed with the unconditional love of her two best friends. He looked a bit dishevelled and infuriatingly beautiful, and Brienne quickly looked away, huffing both from the exercice and annoyance. 

“Was it good?” Sansa called out to him, and it seemed to bring back the man to his senses, because he quickly called for his assistant. 

“Pia! Get the white sheet out of here,” he said, his voice arrogantly imperious, and Brienne rolled her eyes at his tone. 

The mousy assistant quickly came out of the shadows and rolled the white board out of the way. Jaime managed to focus back on his camera and asked them to do it all over again. 

They did, then twice more; he’d sometimes ask them to repeat a move, and he would walk around the studio to get different angles of their most complicated and at times tender moments — and even a few they hadn’t known could bear any form of interest to the audience. Brienne had been worried he’d bring a fetishising angle to their highly sapphic performance, but he remained extremely professional, and she didn’t really understand what he saw in some of Brienne’s _port de bras._

They were asked to stop in their movements sometimes for what felt like ages, and soon, five hours had passed and Jaime finally called it a day. He walked over to his messy desk and let his weight fall against the rim of the table, never leaving his camera, going over the shots he’d taken with his brows furrowed. Pia came over to them with a couple of towels and warm robes, and Brienne thanked her with a grateful smile that had the woman beam excitedly. 

“You were absolutely wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “I never really cared for ballet myself, but that was really fun to watch.” Then she added to Brienne, eyes twinkling in misplaced awe. “Your thighs are _so strong_.” 

And Brienne flushed crimson just as Jaime voice rouse from the other side of the room. “Pia, stop bothering the ladies and help me with the files.” 

And Pia actually clumsily _bowed_ at them and ran over her employer, who rolled his eyes affectionately at her.

Sansa let out a soft giggle. “She’s right, you know,” she said, eyeing Brienne up and down with an exaggerated lasciviousness. “Your thighs _are_ fabulous _._ ”

“Oh, do shut up,” Brienne groaned, and she made towards the barres so as to gather her stuff in order to finally leave this hell of a place. 

But Jaime wasn’t done with them yet.

“Wait! Evil fairy!” 

Brienne cringed at the nickname, and rouse up as dignifiedly as she could. She glared at his approaching form and finally, his usual sardonic grin was back, the one that had her blood recoil in her veins and that made her want to run as far away from him as possible. 

“I’ll e-mail you the details for Wednesday,” he said, his smile turning the more and more cheeky as he took in the extent of Brienne’s flustered state. 

“Terrific,” she replied as icily as she was capable of without sounding too impolite, and Jaime had the _nerve_ to chuckle at that. 

“Dont bring anything too — just bring your own clothes. Training clothes. Black clothes, black leotard, to stick to the evil fairy theme. And the black pointes. They’re —” He cleared his throat at that, and there is was again, that mocking gleam in his eyes as they scanned over the freakish length of her legs.

Sansa laughed. “ _Everyone_ loves black pointes.” 

“Indeed,” Jaime said, smiling at her knowingly, and Brienne groaned internally. She was not going to stick to this place just so they could flirt out their attraction on her back. She turned on her heels and went to the changing room as quickly as she could.

She was almost tempted to come all in pink just to spite him. 

Too bad pink looked so awful on her. 


End file.
